


going back to the start

by ButterflyRogue



Series: we live a dying dream [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, References to Child Abuse, References to Underage Sex, introducing jefferson's dysfunctional family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyRogue/pseuds/ButterflyRogue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Underneath all that sass and arrogance, he was just a little boy, frightened and alone in the darkness of a collapsed mine shaft, hurt and abandoned and with no one who loved him.</p>
<p>Jefferson character study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	going back to the start

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N** – Even though the new promo for OUaT: Wonderland pretty much jossed the possibility of Alice being Grace’s mother, I don’t really care. My Alice already has a different backstory than the one from the promo (she’s not the original Alice in Wonderland, but her descendant; I actually have the whole thing plotted out in another story I’m currently working on) so I’ll just sit here in my corner of the universe and pretend it doesn’t make me feel like crying because these characters are so real to me and I fear I won’t like what canon has in store for Jefferson (should he even appear on the show ever again). Still, I don’t think the writers are aware of the lengths my imagination will go to in order to fit my story logically into canon. :]  
>  *hums* “ _I will go down with this ship…_ ”
>
>>  
>> 
>> _**People named ‘Jefferson’** : People with this name are competent, practical, and often obtain great power and wealth. They tend to be successful in business and commercial affairs, and are able to achieve great material dreams. Because they often focus so strongly on business and achievement, they may neglect their private lives and relationships._  
> 

It starts like this.

Once upon a time there was a scrawny boy living in a remote village just outside the far border of the Eastern realm.

He looks about six (but is probably closer to eight), yet he’s so ridiculously smaller and weaker than his older brothers (there’s five of them, all sturdy with bulging muscles and heavy fists) that a passing stranger would deem him four. There were sisters too, once. Three of them – one older and two little ones (he has a vague memory of crying babies that only his tender hands could soothe and toothless smiles as he rattled a clapper in front of their faces and drove them around their rickety cottage in an old wheelbarrow), but one day he woke to find them gone, and the slap he got when he asked ‘ _where_ ’ had his head ringing for days. His eldest brother calls him their little sister now and laughs boisterously while delivering something that was supposed to be a pat on the back but sends him face-first into dust.

His father has no land or trade, so they have to work in the ancient ore mines for the majority of the year. Their only break from the perpetual darkness and sticky, suffocating black dust is the time of the annual harvest, when everyone from the village toiled and plowed the fields of the Baron who lived in his big stony castle up in the towering mountains, surrounded by the prettiest, most fertile soils. Mining shatters him and field work isn’t any better and father calls him useless and claims he cannot possibly be his son because he is so thin and pretty faced and that he must have been planted by fairies as a cruel joke on their honest, hard-working family. (But if they are the measure of how honest and hard-working looks like, he decides he never wants to be that.)

He grows to hate his father and despise his brothers. He even resents the sisters he thinks he might have loved and reckons that if all families are like this, he never wants to have children of his own either. And with each passing year, he gets more bitter and angry at everyone – even mother, because she never says anything to stop them when they slap him around and call him ugly names, even though she cries later and kisses his bruised cheeks and calls him her beautiful little boy. She cries more when he pushes her away.

He dreams to be someone important, someone like the Baron in his fancy castle. His fantasies almost always include going away from this dull, forgotten place, where constant fogs and soot from the mines keep the sun perpetually clouded, and finding an immense amount of buried treasure. Then he could return and build a castle bigger and more beautiful than the Baron’s, right up there on that highest mountain peak where there is always light, and his father and brothers would come to beg favor and forgiveness and he would look down on them with disdain, ready to have them flogged should they even dare to glance crossly at him. He would give himself a fancy title too, something like ‘Duke’ or ‘Count’ or ‘Marquis’ (he likes ‘Marquis’, ‘Marquis Jefferson’ sounds good) and never again worry about going to bed hungry and bruised because he hasn’t worked as well as he was apparently supposed to that day.

It’s shortly after his ninth birthday when a first big change in his life happens. He remembers that particular year because mother had made him a vest, a pretty, elegant piece like the ones the noblemen wore and he admired every time they passed through their part of the village. And it wasn’t out of that rough weave his shirts and trousers are made of either; she sewed it out of leftover fabric from the fancy frocks she makes for the tradesmen’s wives and he was so stunned he didn’t turn away from her kisses and even threw his arms around her neck and held her tightly for longer than it was necessary. Those were seconds of pure happiness, and for a few short, blissful moments, he felt strangled by some strange emotion he couldn’t quite describe.

The vest didn’t live long enough to see the next morning, though. By the time he managed to escape the rough hands of his brothers, it was already splattered with mud and torn at the seams, but he still carefully tucked the ruined piece of clothing under his matters for safekeeping and touched it gently every night before falling asleep. It was as if seeking comfort from a kindred spirit, because it too was delicate and battered mercilessly because it didn’t really belong to this place, despite being made here.

He didn’t cry, though. Not in front of them, anyway. (Never in front of them.)

Although still absolutely hopeless with heavy labor, he is small enough to squeeze through narrow passages so his brothers keep him around in the mines. As he is nine already, it’s starting to be a tight pinch to pass through those tiny gaps between rocks, and when he wanders into a more unstable part one day, he falls through a collapsed shaft. By the time someone finally notices he’s missing, he has already screamed himself raw with shouting for help. When they pull him out, he is shivering and muttering nonsense while swatting invisible crawling creatures from his arms and legs, and is covered head to toe in sparkly dirt. He falls to bed with a brain fever and coughs up fairy dust for several weeks before he is finally strong enough to stand on his own again. And all of a sudden, people are so much nicer to him, so polite and considerate, and so confident he knows nothing about the things they say behind his back. That his brain is broken. That he sees things that aren’t there. That he had gone mad.

They deem him unfit to return to the mines and he can’t say that he complains, but he needs to learn a trade, they say, so they send him to the tanner’s workshop instead. It’s better than at home, but not by much, because even though no one yells or hits him, the tanner is a strict man with a narrow view of the world and too many rules. And the raw leather blisters his fingers and ruins the tenderness of his hands, and the fumes brand his eyes with permanent redness around the rim and wear his patience thin, making him irritable and edgy. He can’t stand still for long, he’s constantly fidgeting, his hands restless: tugging at his clothes at one moment, re-arranging items on the table the next, and it only further fuels the rumors of his instability until people are no longer nice and start just outright avoiding him. And all the anger he harbors from his earliest childhood memories bubbles even closer to the surface.

But the real change comes with the dreams.

At first he deems it to constant exposure to those horrid chemical substances used in the tannery, their stench so deep in his nose by now that he wonders will he ever again savor the scent of fresh air. But the visions are persistent and after a while, the blurred lines start to take shape until he quite literally finds himself in amazing new worlds filled with stuff beyond even his wildest imagination.

He’s clever for his age so he knows there must be some kind of magic involved because one cannot dream of things he has never ever seen and his dreams are filled with only the completely foreign and virtually impossible.

And as much as he used to feel this dirty little village held him back, he feels it’s literally suffocating him now, so bleak and monochromatic compared to the places he’d seen in his dreams.

* * *

Years go by and he still looks like a boy, but is starting to gain height and fill into his frame, thriving in the absence of beatings that stunted his growth. He might never be as burly as the miners, but discovers girls seem to rather like his pretty face, much more than the size and roughness of other men. He is thirteen when he first touches a female. She is the tanner’s daughter, a couple of years older than him and about to be married in a few days to one of his brothers. She is not very pretty, but she slips into the storage where he sleeps and it feels good when she touches him even though neither of them really knows what they’re supposed to be doing. She whispers she loves him afterwards. He remains silent because he can’t feel anything. He doesn’t understand the concept of love and therefore thinks he can’t feel it.

The girl wants to ask her father if she can marry him instead so he runs away the next morning. There’s nothing tying him to this place anyway.

He lives like a rat – a stolen lump of moldy bread here, a restless sleep in a barn there, careful to slip away before the first light rather than to risk being chased by sheepdogs. He longs for the comfort of his small bed and a warm fire crackling in the hearth, but never regrets leaving his village. Life on the road is difficult, but it’s an adventure of sorts and he fantasizes again about fortunes just waiting to be found, uncovered from under this rock or that. After all, every village has its tales and legends, one of them is bound to be true.

There’s a fair in one of the larger towns he passes through. The streets are swarming with people and he decides he’ll go through the thick of the crowd, pick a few pockets while he’s at it. You don’t get a chance like this every day and he’s come to appreciate a full stomach more than anything in these past weeks. But there are too many people and he’s barely halfway across the square before he wants to get out. It’s hot and stuffy and the screaming children annoy him, even though he’s barely more than a child himself. He pushes through to a nearest clearing in front of a cart where an old man pulls rabbits and doves from a large top hat. The rim swirls with magenta fumes every time the magician reaches his hand in it and Jefferson is mesmerized. His entire body tingles and he _feels_ the flow of magic through the old man, its scent intoxicates him until he can taste it on his tongue and feel it sizzle deep in his bones. He sticks around after the show is over and other children disperse to other places.

“Can you pull anything you want from this hat?” he asks the old man.

“Anything I want,” the man grins and winks at him.

“Can you pull out a treasure?”

The kindly smile turns into a frown before he answers sadly. “I don’t want a treasure, I’m perfectly fine the way I am.”

“Could _I_ pull out a treasure, then,” Jefferson persists, all attitude and arrogance and refusing to back down now that something’s caught his interest.

The old wizard sighs. “It’s not the hat itself that’s magical. Magic is in here,” he presses a weathered hand to Jefferson’s chest. The boy stares at him through furrowed brow and lips pulled in an angry pout. “Here,” the man offers. “You can take the hat if you want. Maybe one day, it will get you what you want.”

He takes it without a word and walks determinedly away.

He’s loitering in the woods just outside the city gates when he accidentally stumbles upon an odd man in a leather suit. He is short and slight so that even a boy like Jefferson looks big next to him, and yet his posture oozes with authority. The man turns and the look he gives him is piercing and there’s a certain expression on his on his gold-tinted face. Jefferson can’t decide whether it’s one of wickedness or some inexplicable fondness, and he is suddenly self-conscious, because he knows he must make quite a spectacle with his threadbare would-be fancy vest that he has already grown out of and an oversized magician’s hat. He thinks that maybe he should be scared but somehow he’s not. This strange man is not as big and strong like his father and brothers and yet he looks intimidating and that makes him curious because maybe he can dress in such fine leather and learn to be intimidating as well.

“Cute hat,” the strange man quips and flicks at it so that the rim loses its precarious perch on the boy’s head and falls to his ears.

“Don’t touch it,” he yells in anger. “It’s a magical hat.”

The golden man turns with a wicked grin.

“You don’t say,” he drawls. “What can it do?”

“I can pull anything out of it. Anything at all.”

“Really,” the man sounds unimpressed. “So can any commoner with a sprinkle of fairy dust up his sleeve. Maybe you should try your luck on a country fair,” the man mocks and turns to leave.

“I can travel through it and go anywhere I want,” shouts Jefferson at his back, so easily irritated and so eager to impress.

The imp-like creature lets out a funny sound, like an exaggerated wail of a cat. _Nya-ha-ha_.

“So young yet so angry,” he croons and pinches Jefferson’s chin with a rough, claw-like hand. “Yes, yes, I can see it all in your eyes. The vengefulness and the passion and an eagerness to prove yourself, yes – there is potential there. You could brush up a bit on your lying skills, though.”

He takes the hat and it glows purple for a moment. “Here, the hat is magical now. Learn how to channel it, and it will do what you want.”

“Teach me how to do what you did,” the boy demands, greedy to have such power in his own hands and still fearless before this fearsome sorcerer, even though his heart thumps wildly in his chest and the rush of blood in his ears is deafening and makes him dizzy.

“I can’t. You don’t have what it takes.”

“Yes I do!” he is angry now, because this stranger is calling him weak and useless as well, and the pent up aggression makes him feel like he will explode.

“No, you don’t,” there is no kindness in the imp’s voice, but there is no scorn either and somehow, that makes Jefferson listen very closely for his next words. “You are bitter and hurt, but you don’t wish any real harm to those who have hurt you. Magic is fueled by feeling, and you don’t feel anything. Not for them, anyway. What you do have is a mind unlike any I’ve ever seen. You’ve been touched by magic and when you learn to understand it, you will be able to channel it into those worlds you dream about and turn this hat into the portal you wanted.”

“And why _should_ I? What I wanted was a treasure, not a stupid portal,” the boy shoots back, indignantly. The creature giggles in that peculiar, high-pitched fashion again and the look in his eerily large eyes is almost appreciative.

“Portal jumping is a rare skill, you could do very well for yourself should you master it. You’d be of great use to me, for one.”

To emphasize his point, he wiggles his fingers and a thread of something yellow and glittering appears in his hand. He drops it into Jefferson’s palm and its weight and metallic texture confirm the boy’s suspicions. Gold. Real, solid gold.

“I don’t even know who you are,” Jefferson asks, quietly and with less confidence now, clutching the precious hat and the valuable piece of yarn tighter with each passing second.

“Rumplestiltskin,” the imp bows with a flourish. “We’ll meet again, boy, when you find your first door to another world.”

And in a puff of scarlet smoke, he’s gone.

* * *

At the age of nineteen, Jefferson feels like he’s already half-way through life. It’s possible for a man to feel like that, sometimes. Especially one who has seen as much as Jefferson did. And it’s not a particularly nice feeling, no matter how hard he tries to bury his bitterness under the mask of casual indifference.

As Rumplestiltskin promised, he came back right after Jefferson had successfully made his first trip through the hat. It had taken him a few years, but eventually, he was rewarded with that swirl of purple fumes that haunted his dreams. Mere seconds after he had tumbled out of a frighteningly eccentric land riddled with gigantic plants and talking animals, the imp had materialized next to him, that wicked grin plastered across his inhuman face. With a flick of his wrist, he had made him a house, called it a “down-payment” and left with promises of gold and a life of luxury. All he had to do was keep traveling. And keep coming back with a souvenir or two for his generous, scaly friend.

It was a special kind of satisfaction he felt after each trip he took, a certain sense of pride he’d never felt before. While he was still fascinated by magic, he didn’t want it anymore. What he had was better. His ability was unique, it was something no one else could do because even Rumplestiltskin himself relied on him to bring him stuff from other realms.

He slept in the softest beds now. Ate the finest foods, dressed in the most extravagant clothes and woke up next to the prettiest women (even though, sometimes they were not pretty at all, but they were rich so he made them feel pretty anyway). His manner of speaking became polished as well, his sentences packed with lavish words that turned even the foulest insults into flattery. His skill had progressed immensely from that first trip through the hat, in realm jumping and deception alike. He accommodated personalities as effortlessly as he spilled elaborate lies, expertly slipping from one role into the other and weaving twisted nets of words capable of ensnaring even the most astute characters, all the while carefully avoiding entangling in them himself. Where he lacked in physical strength, he compensated with arrogance and cunning and sweetened phrases underlined with threats. He also picked pockets, just for the fun of it, and with such deft precision that his victims never even saw him coming, so he rarely ever came back from anywhere empty-handed. Very soon, he had become extremely sought after by kings and noblemen and sorcerers alike, anyone who needed this rarity or that and was willing to pay generously for it.

He was neglected and stepped over for too long. He was done with being invisible. His new life was all about excess and showing off, using expensive things to compensate for the attention he lacked while growing up. He spent easily what came easily, but never worried because work was always in abundance and for the first time in his short life, he liked what he did – truly liked it. It gave him the thrill of adventure, the sense of importance, no matter how superficial his purpose was. And most importantly, all the wealth he had once yearned for so desperately. He could even build that castle now. He could be ‘Marquis Jefferson’. But somehow, the thought of returning to his village, even if it was to show off with his silks and furs and jewels, didn’t look as attractive anymore. So he kept traveling because it was the only thing that made him feel something. Because underneath all that sass and arrogance, he was still just a little boy, frightened and alone in the darkness of a collapsed mine shaft, hurt and abandoned and with no one who loved him.

* * *

He’s doing jobs for Regina quite often lately. Well, _Queen_ Regina, actually, but he rarely uses the title, even though he knows she could have his neck on the chopping block with a snap of her fingers. She won’t though (but he must admit the imminent danger excites him somewhat), as long as he keeps rubbing her the right way, and she’s definitely not the most demanding customer he’s ever had.

It’s information he’s after this time, rather than an object, and he’s managed to dig up enough dirt about the Queen of this realm for one day. On his way back to the portal, there’s a rustle in the rose bushes to his right, and that stops him in his tracks. He may be reckless, but he is not stupid and being alert had saved his life on more than one occasion. However, it is not a soldier or a monster, but a little girl that emerges to stand in front of him. She can’t be older than ten, with a thick mass of auburn curls tied at the top of her head and dressed in a fashion peculiar even for this place.

He frowns. What does one _do_ with a child?

“Are you lost?” feeling awkward at the prospect of simply walking away without a word, Jefferson finds himself asking.

“Of course not,” she shoots back indignantly, yet there is that familiar flash of insecurity in her wide eyes, the look he saw more often than not when business took him to that depressing realm full of lost boys. “Besides,” she looked him over with a haughty gaze he imagined she copied off her mother, “I was expecting to meet a prince. You don’t really look like one.”

His eyebrows went up. It was starting to get slightly embarrassing to stand here and get repeatedly offended by an annoying, arrogant child. “If you say so,” he mutters irritably and turns to go his way again when he hears a small voice behind him.

“Wait!” a sigh and then, “I apologize for being rude. Are you from around here?”

“Nope, just passing by. Much like you, I’d say.” Always the showman, he dips into a ceremonious bow, not unlike the one Rumplestiltskin had performed before him all those years ago. “Jefferson’s the name, and this place is called Wonderland. Horribly pretentious, I know, but what can you do,” he adds as an afterthought, his tone affected and bored. He’s never really had much patience for children anyway.

“Wonderland,” she repeats quietly and takes a moment to look around before focusing her big, hopeful eyes back on him. The young ones always have such hopeful eyes. Stupid children.

So, naturally, it comes as a surprise to him when mere months later, the same pair of equally hopeful, impossibly green eyes gaze up at him from a face not much younger than his.

“Don’t you remember me, Jefferson?” she smiles warmly and her voice is that of a woman, her cheeks no longer plump with childhood, her figure elongated and shapely underneath an oddly styled coat. “It’s me. Alice.”

And sometimes, the age of twenty is a whole new beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> come up to meet you, tell you I’m sorry   
>  you don’t know how lovely you are   
>  I had to find you, tell you I need you   
>  tell you I set you apart   
>  tell me your secrets and nurse me your questions   
>  oh, let’s go back to the start
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> inspired by **Coldplay – The Scientist**


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